


Un, Deux, Trois

by owlboxes



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clubbing, Established Relationship, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Public Display of Affection, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:20:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27554482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlboxes/pseuds/owlboxes
Summary: After one of James's bi-monthly clubbing outings with his best friend, Francis works up the courage to ask something that's been weighing heavily on his mind. James is more than happy to indulge his curiosities.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames/Henry T. D. Le Vesconte
Comments: 9
Kudos: 34
Collections: Fall Fitzier Exchange





	Un, Deux, Trois

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caravaggiosbrushes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravaggiosbrushes/gifts).



> Written for the absolutely amazing [@caravaggiosbrushes](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/). Susan, I cannot even tell you how excited I was to get you as my assignment, and as soon as I saw your Fitzierconte prompt, I knew I had to run with it - it's our baby after all! I hope you love it! <3
> 
> If you are interested in some mood music to go along with reading this filthy clubbing fic, I made a playlist that can be found here: [ Un, Deux, Trois -- A Fitzierconte Modern AU ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/70bQ8nQBFwCVaQ1HkoPmcH?si=a_z0Q_8KSteU5FpDuANZKw)

  
  


Francis’s first thought is that the music is too loud.

This doesn’t bode well for the rest of the night. They’re still in the queue stretching from the front doors of the club, half a block down, and he swears that he can feel the bass rumbling the ground beneath his feet. His next thought is that he’s too old to be doing something like this. Many years past his prime, he hasn’t stepped foot in a nightclub in - actually, he doesn’t want to think about it. Just ahead in the line, two women who look like they’re young enough to be his children are talking obnoxiously loudly about how _wasted_ they are already, confirmed by the unmistakable smell of alcohol barely masked by how much perfume they’re wearing. They shuffle forward a few steps. The music is somehow even louder. This is a bad idea.

“Have you even heard a word that I’ve said?”

The reason for this ill-advised foray into the city’s nightlife is standing next to him, looking like he’s stepped straight out of a magazine. James fits in perfectly here, in his cuffed skinny jeans and a deep blue shirt, the top two buttons open to reveal more skin than is strictly necessary. He’s brandishing his phone in one hand, the other resting on his hip, and the exasperation on his face makes it clear that Francis has been caught.

“No,” Francis admits, knowing that lying isn’t going to get him anywhere. His thoughts have been elsewhere all day, with the knowledge of this outing looming heavily in the back of his mind. How James is still coherent is beyond him. “Sorry. Go on.”

James’s expression softens immediately, and he steps in closer, entwining their fingers even as he looks down at his phone, tapping out a message ridiculously quickly considering he’s doing it one-handed. “I was just saying that Dundy’s late, as usual,” he huffs, “And he’s not answering my texts.” The glow from the screen is illuminating his handsome features as he peers down at it as if he could will his best friend to text him back, and Francis is reminded all over again of why he had agreed to this in the first place - James could talk him into absolutely anything, beautiful, clever thing that he is.

He’d like to blame it all on that, because the alternative means admitting that he’s just as responsible. His own curiosity is what led them here in the first place and he knows it. Because the club, the loud music, the drinks - all of that is a means to an end.

The venue was suggested by the man that James is currently fretting over. James and Henry, affectionately known by their friend group as the ‘mad lads’, have also outgrown this particular nightlife crowd, but occasionally like to pretend as if they aren’t too old to be mingling with twenty-somethings on Saturday nights. They pull it off well enough, Francis has heard, though until tonight, he’s made no effort to confirm that. All he knows is that once every other month, James goes out with Henry on a Saturday night, comes home so drunk that he can barely walk, stumbles into the bedroom, and begs to be fucked as if his life depends on it. And really, who is Francis to deny him?

Lucky as he counts himself to have such an eager lover (not that James is ever lacking eagerness mind you), there’s always been a certain lingering curiosity about _why_. He’s always figured that it’s an effect of the alcohol and the general atmosphere of the sorts of nightclubs that James prefers to frequent, and he isn't one to allow himself misgivings about the particularly incredible sex that they have when James has been out for the night. Still, sometimes he finds the words right on the tip of his tongue, and then swallows them down, not wanting to ruin a good thing.

It wasn’t until a couple of weeks ago that he’d finally worked up the courage to actually ask the morning after, while James was sipping at his coffee, valiantly fighting off the lingering effects of his bi-monthly hangover. At first, James danced around it, tried to play it off with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if it was a long and terribly dull story that Francis didn’t want to hear.

“It’s Sunday,” Francis reminded him, nudging his breakfast closer to him across the surface of the dining room table. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

When James’s expression had shifted from nonchalant to something sheepish, something bordering on guilty, Francis’s heart had sunk. He wasn’t a jealous man by nature, hadn’t even considered the possibility that James could be lying about who he was going out with or where he was going, certainly had never thought that his longtime boyfriend could have been seeking out someone else on those nights. But there was something in the way that James sat a little straighter that left him feeling uneasy in a way that he very much did not enjoy.

“It’s…complicated. And I need you to hear me out before you say anything,” James finally managed, tapping his fingertips against the side of his mug. “Promise?”

Francis swallowed hard, and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He watched as James drew in a breath as if to steady himself, and then nodded once, curtly. “It’s Dundy. We dance together when we go out. It brings back…memories.” He paused to clear his throat, cheeks reddened with embarrassment.

“Memories?” Francis could hear the accusation in his own tone, and he hated himself for it.

Another nod. “You know that I met him in college. I’ve known him for ages. Back then, when we were both single, we…” James shrugged, casting his gaze off to some space behind Francis, as if looking at him in that moment was too uncomfortable. “…experimented, sometimes.”

A number of questions had forced themselves up through Francis’s throat then, spilling from his mouth before he could think better of them. _Experimented how, exactly? How often?_ And then the one that he hadn’t wanted to ask but that needed to be voiced for his own sanity, _How recently?_

“Not for a long time. Certainly not since I’ve known you,” James answered quickly, scoffing at the very idea that he could have been unfaithful. Francis had felt guilty for even mentioning it. “Why do you think I come back here so…” James gestured vaguely, evidently all sorts of flustered even talking about the subject out loud. “Worked up?”

“I know,” Francis immediately found himself apologizing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

What had caught Francis off-guard was that instead of the sudden flooding of possessiveness that he’d expected, the conversation had sparked a whole other kind of curiosity in him. They’d discussed it at length, once there had been shared reassurances that everything was fine between them, and that they trusted each other enough for it to not be an issue. He didn’t doubt for even a second that James had been faithful, or that he would be in the future. But the more that Francis thought about it, the more he’d been enticed by thoughts of James and his, admittedly very handsome, best friend. In the days that had followed, he’d found his mind wandering, imagining what Henry’s hands would look like on James’s hips, what they might have looked like on the dance floor on all of those nights he’d opted to stay home in favor of letting the two of them catch up.

That had necessitated another conversation, one that had him cautiously laying out suggestions that at first had turned James’s expression shocked, and then intrigued, and finally, utterly delighted. Arrangements had been made, another night out scheduled, their plan set in motion.

Now, Francis isn’t so certain, but not for any of the reasons that one might think. It isn’t at all that he’s worried about jealousy cropping up at an inopportune moment, or that with his permission given, James will suddenly forget all about him in favor of his long-time best friend. Rather, he’s come to the realization that besides James, he’s a solid two decades older than the vast majority of the people lined up to get into this club. He can’t dance to save his life. How is he going to keep up with two gorgeous young men? Henry isn’t here yet, maybe it isn’t too late—

“Sorry Jas, was on the Tube and didn’t hear my phone.”

It’s too late. One Henry LeVesconte - born in England to a very British mom and a very French dad - is sauntering up to them with a grin on his face and thankfully much less skin on display than what James is sporting. He still looks devastatingly handsome in slacks and a polo, barely past thirty and already prematurely greying in a way that’s unfairly flattering. It almost makes Francis feel subpar for the lighter strands at his own temples, not anywhere near as attractive on him as the color is on James’s partner in crime. He tries desperately to push those thoughts away as Henry stops short of the two of them, looking them up and down with an unabashed grin. “Francis, it’s been ages,” he gushes, and before Francis can get a word in edgewise, Henry’s arms are wrapping around him, pulling him into a tight hug as he claps him heavily on the back. “Good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Francis finally manages as he’s released so that Henry can pull James into a hug next. James’s smile is blindingly bright as they embrace. There’s such easy familiarity between the two of them, as if when they’re together, they’re fifteen years younger again, college kids with too much time to waste rather than adults with complex lives and very little time to spend with one another. It’s mesmerizing to stand back and watch them, the way they laugh at some joke that Francis has entirely missed in favor of taking in the way that Henry keeps an arm draped over James’s shoulders even when they part from that tight hug. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

They shuffle forward a few steps at a time, as the bouncer at the bottom of the steps leading up to the club checks everyone’s ID, one by one. Francis remains mostly quiet in favor of listening to James and Henry catch up, talking about anything and nothing at all - work, home life, difficult clients on Henry’s end, James’s most recent photoshoot on his own. Francis simply feels as if he’s been graced with some kind of ridiculous luck for what fate has handed him. Some days, he still doesn’t understand how someone like James could be with someone like him. And then, there are moments like this where it seems bordering on impossible, for what they’ve been planning together, for the night that lies ahead of them.

If the music had been loud outside, it’s nearly deafening already as they climb the dark, narrow stairs up to the club, vibrating in the walls around them. People are already raising their voices to talk over it as they wait their turn for the coat check, where Francis shrugs out of the leather coat he’d pulled on before they’d headed out and hands it over to the woman sitting behind the little half-door. James digs into his pocket and drops a couple of coins into the jar set on the edge of her makeshift counter that has a piece of paper taped to it, ‘Tipping is sexy’ scribbled across the front of it in marker, before leading the way down the hall and into the main room of the club.

Talking is no longer an option. The place has only been open an hour at most and the room is already packed. There’s a lineup at the bar, and the dancefloor is full of people with glasses in their hands, the floor thrumming beneath their feet as a dj on a raised platform blasts the music almost unbearably loudly. Even so, the music is catchy, and James is already bobbing his head along to it as he reaches out for Francis’s hand and drags him along to the far end of the bar, where less people have congregated. Drinks first, he mouths, and then, he yells over the music so that Henry can hear him too, “My treat!”

The girl behind the counter is a bubbly blonde with an incredibly low-cut shirt and a smile plastered across her face. James leans across the bar to talk to her, speaking into her ear to be properly heard, as he places an order for the three of them. She nods and is off in an instant, and by the time she’s through, there are five drinks set out on the counter as James hands her probably way more than what the drinks actually cost. He hands one glass over to Francis - three fingers of whiskey, something to sip at. The other four glasses are tall shots, half red liquid, half blue. He hands one over to Henry, takes one for himself, and Francis watches, savoring the slight burn of the whiskey in his throat as they clink their glasses together and down them in one gulp, and then repeat the action with the second set, evidently used to this routine. As James pushes the glasses back across the counter, Henry turns, and Francis feels his heart skip a beat as their eyes lock, the younger man’s lips tugging into a grin as he reaches a hand out toward him.

Against his better judgment, Francis takes it, and Henry uses that moment to step in close. “Jas says you’re feeling a little anxious about all this,” he says - yells really, but it’s hard to tell the difference over the pounding bass. He nods toward the drink in Francis’s hand. “Finish that and come dance with me. I’ll make you feel better.” His grin is devastating. Francis swallows hard. “Promise.”

It’s awkward at first, weaving his way through the crowd with his boyfriend’s best friend, to find a suitable spot in the middle of the dance floor. Francis has no sense of rhythm, certainly not like this; being surrounded by so many people has him feeling flustered, and not in a good way. He looks back through the crowd and catches James’s gaze. That smug bastard is leaning back against the bar, watching them with a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. When he makes no move to join them, Francis is forced to look back at Henry, who’s reaching for his other hand now, guiding them both to his waist. He’s built strikingly similarly to James, though the way he moves is entirely different. James is refined, carefully planned grace. Henry moves like he’s alone in the room, freely, an easy kind of confidence that seems to come without any practice at all.

Francis, meanwhile, is sure that he’s entirely forgotten how to move. This isn’t his kind of music, it’s not his kind of crowd, he doesn’t go out dancing. As if sensing his discomfort - not difficult mind you considering he’s barely even swaying along the beat - Henry leans in again, drawing himself in closer when Francis doesn’t do it for him. “No one’s looking at you but me,” he says, quieter now, but that’s because his mouth is right next to Francis’s ear, his breath warm against his skin. It sends a shiver down his spine. “...and your pretty boy over at the bar. But my point is, no one cares. They’re too busy _feeling_ the music to give a damn about someone else’s dancing. Just let yourself have a little fun.” He pulls back just slightly, fixing Francis with a look that tells him everything that he needs to know. “That’s the point of tonight, isn’t it?”

There’s a double meaning to those words. They both know it too. It’s a secret they’re sharing, if anyone around them could hear them enough to even try to understand. Francis spares another glance back over at James - it’s his secret too, after all - and he can see the desire in his boyfriend’s eyes even in the low light, even across the crowded room. It emboldens him, and he slides his hands up under the hem of Henry’s shirt to find warm skin underneath, then down again, resting on his hips as he pulls him closer. A little fun. He can do that.

Somewhere along the line, he accepts that he won’t be able to dance like some of the other patrons can, but when Henry turns in his arms and backs up against him, a warm, strong body against his own, he decides that doesn’t matter. The man moves like silk against him, smooth and easy and without a care in the world, and if all that he can do is sway to the music, follow along with the rhythm that Henry has set, that’s fine with him. He gets it now, why James comes home so worked up every time they go out. He understands it, because he can feel it for himself now. One hand slides around to rest against the flat of Henry’s stomach, pulling him impossibly closer, and he can feel laughter rumbling in the other man’s chest more than he can actually hear it. The urge to lean in, to brush a kiss against the soft-looking, silvery hair at the nape of his neck is too much to resist, and he does so; this time, he feels something different from the soft laughter, a groan maybe, most definitely a sound of approval. Henry smells like aftershave and he tastes like sweat and now all that Francis can think about is being allowed to taste more of him.

As if reading his mind, he feels someone brush up against him from behind, shivers at the fingertips that trail along his shoulder and down his arm, and then across Henry’s chest as James winds his way around them both, coming to stand before his best friend with a knowing grin. “I’d be jealous if I wasn't aware that you’re both going to end up in my bed tonight,” he says as he steps in closer, effectively trapping Henry between them and leaning down so that they can both hear him. “You two look hot as hell. Thought I’d go mad standing over there watching.” His hands are wandering the whole time he’s talking, over Henry’s chest, down to his waist, thumb catching in the waistband of his slacks as his other hand reaches back to grasp at Francis’s hip, pulling them all in even tighter. This time, Francis _hears_ Henry moan.

From there, things devolve quickly. Francis is torn between the want to never let go of them, and stepping back to get a better view of the way that James and Henry are grinding against one another, Henry’s hands clenching hard at James’s hips to keep him close. Everything feels a little fuzzy, a little too warm, and he can’t even blame it on the alcohol this time around. The crowd is moving around them and yet he’s almost entirely forgotten about anyone, anything, but their little world they’ve built themselves out here on the dance floor, all pounding beat and sweat and touch. He’s almost dizzy with it, as James leans down over Henry’s shoulder and kisses him hard, knocks the air from his lungs, and he kisses back like a man starved.

“ _Christ_ ,” Henry groans, and Francis can feel James’s echoing chuckle against his mouth. It ignites something in him, and he pulls back only to take James’s chin between his fingers, to turn his head toward Henry, imploring them both without so much as speaking a word. They don’t need to be told. His entire world feels like it’s been flipped upside down as he watches Henry thread his fingers through James’s hair, pulling him into a messy, crushing kiss, telling of how often they’ve done this before. They’re gorgeous. They’re perfect. They’re all his tonight.

There’s a certain sense of urgency from that point onward that he can’t put a proper name to. They stumble out of the club after a quick stop at the coat check. Francis fumbles for the ticket he’d shoved into his pocket earlier, rendered all the more difficult by the way that James is hanging off of him, shamelessly tugging his shirt free from where it had been neatly tucked into his pants. How they make it down the stairs at all is a miracle that he will unfortunately have no knowledge of come morning. Outside, it’s started to drizzle but he can’t feel it, and couldn’t bring himself to care even if he could. He hails a cab while James kisses Henry again, and he has to pry them apart just long enough to get them into the backseat of the car, with Francis settled between the two of them.

“Right where he belongs,” Henry quips, as James conjures enough brain power to remember his own address and relay that to the cabbie. Meanwhile Francis takes the opportunity to pull Henry down for a proper kiss, their first of the night, most certainly not the last. He tastes sweet, much like James had - likely the remnants of whatever awful sugary shots they’d downed at the beginning of the night - and he’s pliant in all the right ways, parting his lips and letting Francis devour him. “Sorry about us,” he hears James laugh, even as he feels his boyfriend’s hand creeping up his thigh, “I’ll tip you well, I promise.”

Even so, they tone it down for the remainder of the drive, as much as is possible with the thoughts they’re all undoubtedly sharing. The tension is palpable, all three of them thrumming with it. Francis takes James’s hand and squeezes it tight, and they share a knowing smile. Henry settles in and drapes an arm across the back of the seats, his fingers brushing through James’s hair - keeping his hands busy, because if he doesn’t, there’s a whole plethora of things that he’d much rather be doing with them right then. The route from the club to James’s apartment takes only a few minutes, but it feels like an eternity. Francis is acutely aware of the warmth coming off of the two beautiful men flanking him, and he’s filled with the insatiable urge to get his hands all over both of them, which he does, the second that they stumble through the lobby and into the elevator.

Before the doors close, he’s got an arm around each of them; he pulls Henry in for another hard kiss, as his hand slides down James’s waist to rest at the small of his back, and then lower, shamelessly squeezing at the tempting curve of his ass through those ridiculous jeans. The sooner he can get them off of him, the better. That thought lingers only a moment because there are two sets of hands on him then, James’s long fingers tangling in his hair, Henry’s own trailing down over his chest, pulling at the hem of his polo and then hooking into his belt. The ding of the elevator is a rude awakening that none of them are ready for, and the hesitance to pull away from one another almost causes the doors to close before they’ve managed to make their way out in to the hall. Only the promise of a soft, comfortable, _private_ place to spend the rest of the night is enough to defeat the overwhelming urge to keep touching.

Before they’ve even reached the door, James is fumbling for his keys, his hands almost too unsteady to manage to unlock the damned thing, made all the more difficult with the way that Henry presses up against him from behind, slides a hand down to brush his fingers teasingly over the evident bulge in the front of his jeans. “Should’ve brought me home sooner,” Henry murmurs, and James whines in frustration.

“Fucking tease,” James grits out, cursing under his breath as he finally manages to get the key into the lock.

“I’m sure Francis wouldn’t’ve minded,” Henry goes on, and this time Francis can’t bite back the sharp bark of laughter that forces it’s way up from his chest as he reaches out and turns the damned key himself, pushing the door open.

“I’d like to think that should be pretty obvious by now,” he chuckles, gesturing for them to go ahead. “Now get inside before we end up giving the neighbors a show.”

How they make it from the doorway, down the hall, and into James’s bedroom is a blur. There are hands everywhere, shoes and belts scattered all over the floor, and by the time they’ve reached the bedroom, James is already shirtless and Henry’s pants are undone and shoved half way off of his hips. Just short of the bed, James stops and pulls Henry into a kiss, and as Francis loosens his own belt, he stands back and admires them for a long moment, watches with his heart pounding in his chest as James breaks that kiss to instead trail his lips down Henry’s sharp jawline, teeth worrying the skin just below his ear and drawing a breathy moan from him. They really are lovely together, and the fact that he’s being allowed to witness this feels like some kind of blessing. That gnawing feeling of inadequacy is back, but as if sensing it, James reaches out for him and pulls him in close. Suddenly, he’s trapped between them, with James at his back, leaning down to kiss a hot line along the length of his neck, even as Henry stands before him, tugging his shirt up and baring warm, freckled skin to his wanting eyes.

“Fuck. Jas wasn’t kidding. You really are something,” he breathes, and it’s got Francis’s cheeks burning as he lifts his arms and allows the shirt to be pulled over his head and discarded. Henry’s hands offer that same reverence that his tone had held as they wander down his sides, brush over his chest, and then dip lower, to work the button open on his slacks. All the while, James is kissing at Francis’s neck, his shoulder, his own hands sliding forward over his chest so that he can wrap his arms around him properly. It’s probably for the best, because the second that Henry greedily shoves his hand under the waistband of Francis’s underwear, his knees nearly give out beneath him. It’s all he can do not to instinctively thrust forward into the rough palm that wraps around his quickly hardening cock; the groan that escapes him is a lost cause.

“Told you,” James is saying, his voice rough with want, and so close to Francis’s ear that it sends shivers down his spine. “He’s perfect, isn’t he? You’re lucky I decided I felt like sharing.”

“ _He_ is listening to every word that you’re saying,” Francis points out, trying for sarcastic and falling flat, because it’s incredibly hard to focus on anything but the way Henry is stroking him. Still, his cheeks are burning from the way they’re speaking about him, as if he’s something as desirable as they are. Between how evidently aroused they both are, and the sincerity in their tones, he doesn’t have much other choice but to believe them.

“Good, and I hope he’s understanding, because it’s true.” James smiles broadly at him and grasps him by the chin, turns his head to draw him into a hungry kiss.

Suddenly he can’t think about anything anymore. Everything is sensation, touch, heat, and a heavy desire that he can no longer ignore. Somehow they manage to shed the last of their clothing, and then the three of them are on the bed, with James laying between them, kissing Henry, and then Francis, and then Henry again. Francis is struck by how much skin is on display, how much he can reach out and feel, and he does so without any restraint, his hands wandering over Henry’s pale shoulder and down his arm, trailing along his side and watching as goosebumps raise in the wake of his touch. He palms over James’s chest, beautifully tan under his fingertips, pinching one pert nipple and delighting in how his beautiful partner moans into Henry’s mouth even as he bucks into his best friend’s hand. Between the two of them, James is helpless, driven half-mad by the mounting desperation, a want for so much more.

James manages to disentangle himself from them just long enough to move, to push Henry back against the bed and settle between his legs. He catches Francis’s eye and not a word needs to be said. This is a fantasy they’d discussed at length, and Francis knows what James wants without having to hear it. He reaches for the drawer of the bedside table, fingers curling around the tube tucked away there, even as he watches the way that James moves down Henry’s body, leaving a searing trail of kisses along his chest and down over the toned muscle of his stomach and lower still. He knows how devious that mouth can be, and he wonders briefly if James honed those particular skills with the man laid out beneath him now. Henry certainly does not hold back when James’s pretty lips wrap around the weeping head of his cock; rather, his fingers sink into James’s hair and tighten as he gives an experimental thrust up into his mouth, and then another, and Francis watches, transfixed, at the way his throat works around the sudden intrusion.

James’s strangled, muffled moan is what brings him back to the moment, and he chuckles, a low rumble in his throat, as he moves to settle behind his partner, smoothing his hands over his lower back, his hips, feeling the slightest tremble in James’s thighs, especially when his fingers trail inward, wrapping around his cock, hanging heavy and dripping between his legs, to give him a few slow, teasing strokes. “That’s it,” Francis mutters, smirking at the way that James arches his back and shifts his weight to further spread his legs, seeking out more of the contact that he’s so desperately craving. It’s tempting to bring him off like that, to leave him trembling and oversensitive and still very much at their service, but somehow the thought of drawing it out is so much sweeter. And so Francis moves to kneel behind him properly, uncapping the lubricant and slicking his fingers, the sound mingling delightfully with the wet slide of Henry’s cock in and out of James’s eager mouth.

He’s just as eager for Francis’s fingers. The first meets very little resistance, and even the stretch of a second finger doesn’t seem to bother him at all. Rather, James eagerly pushes back onto them, a plea for more without saying a word. Still, Francis is thoroughly enjoying watching these two lovely men before him, and takes his sweet time, carefully sliding a third finger in alongside the first two and crooking them just right, his fingertips catching on his rim on the way out and then plunging in again, pressing against that spot inside of his partner’s body that has James choking and whining around the girth of Henry’s cock. “What do you think?” Francis grits out through clenched teeth; teasing means making himself wait too, and his patience is rapidly thinning. “Should I give him what he wants?”

Henry’s smirk is lazy and deliciously smug from where he’s reclined against the pillows. “I dunno…I kind of like watching him squirm,” he purrs, and the indignant sound that James tries to make is stolen away by another filthy, muffled moan when Francis rubs against his prostate again, sending all logical thought scattering. “Then again,” Henry adds, smirk widening into a grin as he looks down and catches sight of those beautiful brown eyes gazing up at him from beneath thick lashes, imploring him. “Think I’d _love_ to watch you fuck him.”

That’s all that Francis needs to hear. He withdraws his fingers at once, rises up onto his knees and reaches for the lube again, has to be careful not to give in to that mounting heat as he slicks himself with a few quick strokes. His hands grasp at James’s hips with near-bruising strength as he lines himself up, sinks into him half way and waits until he feels James shudder against him before sliding home. No matter how many times they do this - and oh, has sex become a very regular part of their lives together - James is always so incredibly hot and tight around him, pliant beneath his touch and always so deliciously hungry for it.

Now is no exception. He’s trapped between them, rocking back to meet each of Francis’s measured thrusts and then forward again to take Henry’s cock into his throat, swallowing hard around him. Whatever rhythm they start out with is quickly lost to chasing their pleasure however, and soon Francis can feel his control slipping, his thrusts hard and deep and drawing a constant stream of pretty noises from James’s throat. Perhaps it’s the buildup of anticipation, maybe it’s that they’re all mildly tipsy and still worked up from the club, but before long they’re falling apart. Henry’s own pleasured moans mingle with the wet, muffled sounds that James is making around his cock, a sharp contrast to the little grunts that Francis allows himself, that grow steadily louder and louder as he feels that familiar heat building in the pit of his belly, until he can’t hold it back any longer.

James’s name is on his tongue as he buries himself deep and spills inside of him, jaw gone slack and vision filled with stars. He’s panting hard, his chest heaving with every gasped breath, and even so, all he can think about is how much he wants to watch both of his bedmates lose themselves to that same agonizing pleasure. He can tell from the tension in James’s body alone that he hasn’t come yet, and a singular thought surfaces in his mind that he can’t seem to let go of. Reaching out with an unsteady hand, Francis bats Henry’s hand away from where it’s still clenched in James’s hair and replaces it with his own, pulling him up and off of Henry’s cock, shivering at the dual sounds of frustration that he draws from them. It will be worth it, and as he whispers into James’s ear, he fixes Henry with a look that promises as much.

James is nodding before he’s even through explaining, and Francis presses a kiss just below his ear before withdrawing from him, flopping down against the pillows next to Henry to watch his master plan unfold. James moves like a large cat, graceful even now as he crawls up the bed and straddles Henry’s lap. His eyes are dark with want, and he bites down on his lower lip as he sinks down onto Henry's cock in one smooth motion, the resulting moan low and rumbling and rich as it tumbles from his mouth. Henry’s eyes fly open wide, and it’s Francis’s turn to look smug as he moves closer, pressing himself up against both of them and stroking his fingers down over the silvery spattering of hair dusting Henry’s chest. “Feels good, doesn’t he?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Henry’s cheek. “Figured it was only fair to give you a turn.”

Henry is too preoccupied to conjure up some cocky reply. His hands are clenching at James’s waist, holding on for dear life as James moves above him, taking the pleasure that he so desperately needs. He’s beautiful, his head thrown back, face flushed and his teeth worrying his lower lip, his body on display for them, all toned muscle and long limbs. Francis can’t resist the urge to touch him - never, ever has been able to resist that urge since permission was given to do so, many years ago now - and his fingers trail lower, down over Henry’s belly, and then up to wrap around James’s aching cock. His gorgeous partner sobs from the sudden overstimulation and jerks up into his hand, once, twice, and then he’s spilling over Francis’s fist with a strangled cry; at the same moment, Henry bucks beneath him and groans James’s name, body drawn taut for a beat before slumping heavily back against the mattress.

Somehow, they untangle themselves, guide James down to lay between them, and then they’re entangled in each other all over again, sharing languid kisses and catching their breath and basking in the glorious, still slightly tipsy afterglow. Francis presses a kiss to James’s shoulder, another to his cheek, reaches up to turn James’s head so that he can kiss at the corner of his mouth, and then his lips, long and lingering. The love that he has for this man will never cease to amaze him, in the way that it bubbles up in his chest and threatens to spill out every time James so much as smiles at him, how he feels himself falling a little more every single day. This moment is no exception - rather, he finds himself even more filled with love for the trust that they have for one another that allows them to do something like this and not worry about consequences. The only thing that he can think of that can possibly come from this is that Henry, who is snoozing against James’s shoulder with an arm thrown across his waist, might very well be spending many more nights in their bed.

“Are you okay?” James whispers, as they break apart, his voice small and worried. “Was that alright?”

Francis has to bite back a laugh, lest they wake their sleepy guest. “James, you sweet, silly thing," he sighs, brushing his fingers through his lover's sweat-damp hair. "Name a single man in his right mind who would have the nerve to complain after spending the night like we just did. I’ll wait.”

James has to lift a hand to stifle a snort. The action has Francis’s heart warming even further. “Okay,” James concedes, tilting his head to lean it against Francis’s own, his eyes sliding closed, “You’re right. Though I’m sure you’ll be doing your fair share of grumbling when you’ve got to cook breakfast for us both come morning.”

“If I have to listen to you two bicker over who’s got the worst hangover, you might be right.” Francis presses another kiss to James’s temple, and then reaches over to turn the light off on the nightstand, plunging the room into darkness. Beside him, James sighs, and Henry starts to snore. Francis chuckles as he pulls the covers up over them all, stifling a yawn. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “But no. Breakfast won’t be an imposition. It's the very least I can do. Now hush, and get some rest." He can't resist pressing one more kiss to James's cheek. "I love you.”

"Mm. Love you too," James manages, and then their conversation lapses in favor of just holding one another. Within minutes, James is out cold. Francis wants to scoff at the ridiculous swell of affection in his chest for the two of them, not only his darling James, light of his life, but for Henry too, and the easy connection they’ve made that night. He’s a lucky man, and he knows it. That thought lingers in his mind alongside breakfast plans, and quite possibly a round two come morning, as he finally gives into the urge to sleep, lulled by the low, steady sounds of their breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, you can find me over on tumblr [@owlboxes.](http://owlboxes.tumblr.com/)


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